


Conditional Surrender

by velociraptors



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Awkward Tension, Emotionally Repressed, Friendship is Magic, Highschool years, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Game(s), Sexual Content, Teenagers, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 16:14:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7899445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velociraptors/pseuds/velociraptors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place during Noctis' high school years. A series of vignettes about Ignis and Noctis' peculiar arrangement over the course of about a year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conditional Surrender

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Noctis' birthday but also inspired by Brotherhood ep. 4 and posted a bit early because I got tired of reading through it. I just combined these two themes into one cluster of weirdness, and I couldn't think of a title at all for the longest time, so the working title was "Ugly Sobbing" while I was writing this. Also, Noctis is about 16-17 at the start of this fic, slightly older than his initial anime age. 
> 
> Lastly, this is like 90% porn and very little substance. I'm sorry.

**001.**

 

The first time it happens, there's no precedent set for him to follow, no proper protocol to dictate how he should react, _if_ he should react. Logic dictates that he has no place in these personal matters, that he needs to turn away, scrub the images from his mind, and forget the incident entirely because ultimately, it should have no bearing on him who has been asked by the king to watch over his son, to handle his day-to-day affairs, to schedule, plan, clean, sew, cook, drive, then sleep. 

Nothing says that this is his responsibility, but nothing says that it isn't, either. 

It's that kind of logic that threads uncomfortably through his mind, a flimsy justification that Ignis clings to when it's impossible to look the other way and brush the matter aside. Noctis isn't the only one in this room who is human, a fact painted too apparent by the way heat grafts its way along his spine when the young prince's eyes meet his. 

There's shock there, fear, embarrassment, a myriad of acceptable emotions, and Ignis wants to tell him it's fine to feel that way. He can yell and throw him out if he likes, but the silence between them stretches without limit, wrapping around the two of them, strangling the air right out of the room by the second. There's sweat dancing on Noctis' brow, and his thin fingers sit withdrawn from where they'd been buried in his pants seconds ago, now curled on the cushion of the couch while his young face cracks and splinters all over the place like he can't make sense of his own actions. 

That finally bids Ignis to speak out of place, force something out of his mouth when the appropriate response would be to simply leave. Give him his privacy. He's itching to run, but logic is a flimsy thing when it clashes with instinct, and it tears itself in half sometimes when Noctis is concerned. He doesn't want to be the adult in this situation for once, doesn't want to be the responsible party, or the designated driver when it's appealing to fall and crash violently. The frenetic thrumming across his veins tells him so, aching with some emotion his mind hasn't let the rest of him make tangible because he can ignore it more easily that way, compartmentalize it in a file never to be opened or researched. 

But now, he's not giving himself a choice to brush it aside. 

"I didn't know you were home." 

The white skin painted along Noctis' knuckles is distracting, fingers curled up on the small flash of exposed skin between his uniform shirt and his pants, and he can tell how hard the prince has his jaw set, the tension visible in the veins that protrude under the surface of his neck. They swim like snakes beneath pale flesh while Noctis' eyes flicker around wildly, never meeting his. 

That's when his crumpled up body curls, knees moving upwards, trying to hide his lap as he sits up more fully. There are traces of exertion where his cheeks glow bright, discolored. _How close had he been?_ -it's an errant and disturbing thought, but he doesn't dwell on it because Noctis speaks quietly as if he's almost afraid to hear himself.

"You should have knocked." 

That's true. He should have. He'd gotten into the habit of coming and going without permission, taking it upon himself to invade his privacy for the sake of duty, knowing that there are so many ways a boy this young and on his own could misstep, though he wonders how long he can get away with calling him a boy even in his head. The evidence plays out before him that Noctis had ceased thinking like a child long ago and, in a lot of respects, is becoming a dichotomous being where the weight and severity of his future makes him regress mentally though physically, biologically - _unmistakably_ -, he's no longer a child. 

"My apologies," he replies after a moment, though it doesn't undo the past few seconds of lingering awkwardness nor the emotional upheaval that lingers between the two. "I thought you would have gone to the arcade after school."  
   
He'd only been going there like clockwork the past few days, so his logic had dictated that he shouldn't have been here in his apartment, but in the end, they should set up a future protocol for this. A sign on the door or perhaps a message sent in advance, something to forewarn him, but Noctis doesn't think that carefully. He's a cluster of impulses all fighting to get out, undoubtedly made more insufferable by the simple existence of hormones. 

Noctis' eyes still scrape across the ground, and tension remains stretched across the tight curve of his spine, shoulders bowed uncomfortably forward. He's misery and frustration embodied, and if Ignis hadn't interrupted him, he probably would have finished himself in the same spot Ignis had found himself sitting in last night while they'd shared coffee together. 

Was tonight the first time he'd touched himself there in that spot? Ignis' thoughts rewind through a quick mental catalogue of situations where he'd found himself on his couch or sitting at the edge of his bed, tugging his sheets, cleaning his towels. Not once had it occurred to him what he'd been touching, if he'd been touching anything usual at all, but the place where disgust should curdle inside of him is only filled with unmistakable heat when he thinks on it now. 

That realization breaks his resolve to stay. Now, for certain, he wants to run completely rather than simmer any longer under the weight of too many implications. It'd be easier to pretend he saw nothing, knew nothing. 

"I can come back later." 

His feet are already moving, turning from the scene, tearing him out of the reality of it to hide in the comfort of regulations. His role is static, unchanging, a fact he's become familiar with for years now. There are elements in nature that are equally immutable, that even magic won't affect. He takes comfort in that knowledge as his legs move lead-like towards the door, but Noctis' voice becomes an anchor tied around his ankles, rooting him in place. 

"Ignis." 

If he'd said anything else but his name at the moment, would his heart still jump this fast and violently in his chest? It's strange how the simple, most minute details are always the most volatile ones. 

"Yes?" 

He doesn't face him, but he hears the rustling of clothes, the clinking of Noctis' still open belt from where it dangles helplessly along the loops, probably torn open in a haste. Noctis' always compensates for his lack of dexterity with brute force, something Gladio had warned him would be a grave disadvantage in battle. 

"Are things going to be weird… between us?" 

Honest and blunt. He makes a mental note to work on Noctis' diplomatic tactics with him at a more appropriate time, well aware that as king he can't always say whatever pops into his mind. Delicate topics need to be breached carefully and not trudged into without abandon, and even his quiet voice doesn't hide the fact that Noctis would rather nail down a truthful answer from him than wave things off. How easy it'd be to forgive and forget, but Noctis is more emphatic than anyone gives him credit for.

Even if Ignis does his duties as told, performs them mechanically like they'd been embedded deep into his muscle memory, he'll always avoid that one spot on the couch and start thinking twice about how much bleach he puts on his sheets. The mental visuals aren't as easy to scrub loose with peroxide, still replaying in a broken synapse in his brain that one image of Noctis' eyes closed, lips apart, thighs spread, fingers moving roughly over himself as though he were punishing his body instead of chasing after some elusive pleasure. Objectively speaking, it's an inefficient method to achieve release. 

"It won't," he lies because the truth is complicated and messy, and he doesn't want to discuss the matter in further detail.

Noctis should at least be able to hold onto one reprieve when everything else stands to be taken from him soon. 

"Goodnight, Noct." 

Eyes set forward, jaw held shut. There's no reason to look back, to stare into Noctis' black lashes cradling his bright eyes. His own resolve wouldn't stand much of a chance, feeling it already crumble at the puddling sensation of warmth crawling spider-like along the pit of his stomach. 

The drive home is long, clothes feeling too heavy against his skin, sweat pasting the fabric uncomfortably to the surface until it threatens to strangle him all over. Writhing, adjusting, nothing alleviates the sensation until he removes his clothes completely, and his shower pours over him like lava rolling down his muscles as his head tilts towards the spray. He wants to touch his own thighs, rub his nerves raw until they burn and ache, but he only touches the bar of soap to his body, doesn't linger, stop, or caress. If he surrenders to the urge, he knows he won't be able to undo the damage afterwards. If it remains an urge, there's no evidence on his body that he indulged, lost himself to impulse, too. 

What had the past years been preparing him for if not to serve? How can he serve if only the sound of his name from someone else's lips shatters him, leaves him in jagged pieces on the shower floor? The future is a burden that's been drilling into his shoulders since his youth, and there's no reason he should ever let himself forget that.

 

**002.**

 

There is no second time because Ignis now makes a specific habit of knocking before entering, letting Noctis know, giving him room to do what he needs to make himself decent, but he's always met with silence on the other side. The prince hasn't arrived home earlier than him for days as though he's avoiding him. When he does arrive, it's always late at night, and the conversation exchanged rarely exceeds a fifty-word limit.

More often than not, Noctis' gaze lies on the floor, and he shuffles his food around, pushing the vegetables into a disorganized pile and waiting for the act to frustrate Ignis enough to let him off the hook yet another evening without eating any of it. It always works because keeping him imprisoned is never his intent, yet he can't help but see himself peaking at Noctis through steel bars anyway. 

That night, it rains hard, the drops smacking violently on the balcony windows, and Noctis' reclines on his sofa with his portable game console on his chest after dinner, clicking buttons distractedly. It's better to push his gaze onto the screen rather than leave it on the floor -that's what Ignis reasons. It still doesn't fix the fact that Noctis is avoiding conversation and only answering noncommittally to his daily reports. If anything sinks in, if anything doesn't, he can't tell. He really wants to pluck away the console and remove all other distractions between them, but he's not looking to instigate anything. 

The prince had a long day of exams, the weariness etched beneath his eyes, and his skin looks paler than usual, the blue sinew of his veins spread starkly under his flesh. It's mapped out down his arms and along his neck where Ignis stares too long, following the bob of his throat every time he swallows. 

That was the same position he'd found him a few nights ago, the memory superimposed yet distorted, Noctis' lips open, Noctis' hollowed cheeks, the breaths skittering out of his throat, each one louder than the next.

Squeezing his eyes closed doesn't blot it out. Neither does removing his glasses to pinch the space in between as if massaging those nerves could cleanse the very shapes of him from his mind. Even the smell around the couch weighs heavier, laden with something strong and dizzying, though it could be his own imagination. There's no way particles linger in the air that long unless he'd been coming here daily to do the same thing. It's not his business to know or ask or even contemplate, and he sits far away to distance himself from the idea, instead focusing on the rich coconut after-taste in the exotic coffee blend he had imported from Lestallum. It clings to his tongue, making him unconsciously push it against the roof of his mouth to taste it for longer, savoring it. 

There's no reason for him to stay this long, but he wants to hear Noctis say something reassuring before he goes rather than watch him squirm inside himself as though he's just come to the realization that he's been wearing the wrong skin his whole life. He doesn't think he should ever feel at fault for being human when the world is asking him not to be, but he can't bring himself to encourage the indulgences either. Giving him free reign in anything is a dangerous risk. Noctis still has no idea how to balance himself between responsibility and selfishness. 

His own eyes shift to Noctis' form when he catches the prince sitting up out of the corner of his eye, and he sees Noctis' gaze gutting him without restraint, blunt as his words had been the other night. He realizes that Noctis' intensity is as unbalanced and unmitigated as the rest of him, and even the hair on his own arms stands on end, hyper-aware of the way he watches him. 

"Do you want more coffee?" 

It's a question to fill the space. Noctis won't drink anymore, well aware how useless it is. Even an entire keg of coffee could never keep him awake. 

"No thanks," he replies expectantly. The game is abandoned, the portable console left on the table as Noctis finally moves, his steps somewhere between a sloth and a prowling cat as he slinks into the bedroom.

Ignis only remains long enough to allow the prince to fall completely asleep before turning off the lights in his apartment for him and peeking into his bedroom to make sure he's actually asleep. His form lies curled on one side, facing away from the window while his fingers squeeze around the blanket, and in sleep, he looks far younger than his everyday self, his features smoothed out, soft, non-lethal. Like this, he can pretend for a little longer that Noctis is still the boy from his memories, quiet, inquisitive, still innocent. But is it right to say that about someone who'd touched death before he could properly ride a bike? 

Maybe he's the one still clinging to simplicity -when the prince had been under the same roof with King Regis, and war hadn't been looming over them like tempestuous storm clouds. Noctis had laughed more then just as the king had, but it's now just a bittersweet sound that echoes in his memories. 

His body floats at the doorway for a bit longer, following the lumps of Noctis' body under the sheets with his gaze as if trying to convince him that this in itself won't become a faded memory one day like any other. How many nights will they spend in each other's orbit? 

The thought is cut in half by Noctis' voice, still awake yet muffled slightly by the pillow.

"I can't sleep." 

There's a small sound like a snort that leaves his own nose.

"I never thought I would see the day I'd hear you say that." 

Noctis' brows knit together as the corner of his lips are tugged downward. 

"Cut it out. I'm being serious." 

That makes him almost feel a little bad about teasing him, especially since Noctis rarely if ever admits to being troubled by something. He has to wonder if the blend of coffee he'd brewed had been particularly strong, though it'd be too easy to blame an external factor when the truth is that he himself is more likely the cause for the prince's turmoil. If he hadn't caught him the other day, they wouldn't have trouble meeting each other's gaze candidly as they had before, there wouldn't be this constant vibrating tension prickling everywhere against each other's skin, reminding them that reality is often as ugly and messy as it is unpredictable. 

The bed dips under his own weight as he sinks next to Noctis, absently catching his eyes watching him under the veil of darkness, and they're still unimaginably vivid against the colorless backdrop of his room. It's all he can fixate on before his own voice slithers heavily out of his throat as though he's about to deliver his own death sentence. In many ways, that's exactly what it is.

"Do you want me to help you sleep?" 

Were it anyone else offering, it would seem like an impulsive thing to say, but Ignis knows himself to be careful, measured, practiced. These aren't words delivered without thought or consideration, but perhaps, the best solution to ameliorate both the situation in which Noctis can't sleep and the situation in which Noctis won't look him in the eye any longer. 

It's why he remains unfettered when Noctis pushes himself up on his elbows, shock radiating from both his expression and his body language. There's nothing there that doesn't remind him of a small animal ready to bolt from a lion's maul, but Noctis is perfectly still even in his wariness. 

"What do you mean?" 

The words sound scratchy, soft, tired even. Definitely confused. Ignis doesn't think it's the voice of a man who will be king or who will ever lead a battle campaign, but he's not looking to assist the future king tonight. His own concern is with Noctis himself. 

"Allow me to help give you relief." 

He doesn't leave any room for further confusion, making it as apparent as he can in his own words that he means to finish what Noctis started the other evening. It's not duty that compels him. It's not even entirely selflessness, but he pushes apart the impending anxiousness bubbling from inside his own chest. That's not a vein of thought he wants to indulge at the moment, instead worrying more over Noctis' turmoil. It's easier if he makes it about him rather than himself -acceptable, allowable even. 

Noctis' body is drawing further away from the mattress, pushing himself to sit up fully as his palm digs into his eyes. By the way he's blinking, it's clear he's struggling to define reality and understand the offer being presented to him. The words sounded foreign to his own ears too, but the way he said them had been firm and unwavering. It's not an offer that's meant to be taken lightly, and he can see why Noctis is trying to wrestle with those words, turning them around in his head like a dozen broken clocks moving counter to what's natural. 

"Are you being serious?"

Is he ever not? Noctis already knows the answer to that, so Ignis doesn't clarify any further, only waiting for him to give him a denial or acceptance. Neither ever come, Noctis instead jerking the conversation towards Ignis. Exactly what he didn't want to happen.

"… _why_?"  

_Because Noctis needs this._

Bluntness isn't at home on his tongue, and he'd rather not rattle things further between them or distort their roles any more than he already has, accidentally or not. He needs to repair not splinter the boundaries between them. 

"We won't be able to work together effectively if you won't trust me completely." 

"So this is to gain my trust?"

Noctis says those words like he's tasting something foul on his tongue, his shoulders stiffening the more the conversation progresses. Whatever drowsiness had overtaken him before seems all but non-existent now. Rather, there's something almost panicked in his body language, like he still wants to bolt completely from this conversation, and Ignis wonders if he gravely miscalculated. He dislikes second-guessing himself this much, but Noctis is always a variable without a defined solution. He can never tell exactly how he will react to a situation where as everyone else appears too predictable to him. 

"I don't need your help," he finally says, defaulting to anger from his confusion because he's rapidly running out of ammunition. This is his last self-defense mechanism. 

His words don't sting the way they should, but that's because Ignis can tell that they're more spoken out of stubbornness than actual refusal. Like himself, Noctis struggles communicating his desires effectively, instead circumventing them widely and expecting someone else to parse together all the queues for him. It's why he doesn't leave or drop the matter. 

"Will you continue to avoid talking to me then?" 

There's guilt roaming across Noctis' eyes as the prince struggles more with his words, tries to find another response that isn't complete and illogical surrender. Ignis still doesn't know how Noctis will react or if he'll agree to it, but he's immovable at this point, too invested in how the evening will conclude to break apart and bury it in a faded memory bank like every other moment he'd clung to out of unconscious sentimentality. He's stubborn in his own way, too. 

"…Don't know." 

It's truthful, and Noctis' hand scrubs over his face as though he's trying to physically shield himself from reality, but the way his body suddenly presses back into the bed, the way his fingers haphazardly shove the blankets from the bulge already forming in his lap, tells him more than anything verbal will ever. He's giving him his complete and undivided trust. 

"I just want to sleep," he continues, and his eyes open and stay glued to the ceiling above instead of acknowledging him at first, which makes Ignis feel all the more uneasy as he moves closer to his body without due ceremony to touch him.

Fingers lay across Noctis' stomach, splayed out, stretching over firm abdominal muscles and feeling them twitch from the way Noctis' breaths subtly increase. Ignis absently counts the expirations in his head, noting every minute reaction -for future reference, he tells himself. But that's a lie. There might not be a second time at all. 

Noctis' eyes finally shift down to watch him after a few seconds with unhampered wariness, following the lines of his arm down to his fingers, and the tension winds around the prince's muscles when he goes too stiff, non-moving, still behaving like he's cornered. Immediately, Ignis aims to dislodge all those knots in his joints, melt him down into something relaxed and pliable as his own fingers draw beneath the waistband of his pants, pushing beneath the tight elastic over skin far too soft compared to the taut muscles surrounding it. Light but coarse hair brushes across his fingertips as they descend, and he feels more than sees Noctis react when he touches him, lightly dancing over his stirring cock with his fingertips. Noctis' body is almost unnaturally feverish and warm here, a stark contrast to how cool the rest of him usually feels, and with careful precision, he cradles Noctis' cock against his palm right away, wanting to feel more of him, inching towards a craving that he'd left unanswered before.

It's awakening now, becoming unlatched inside and spilling forth as he studies Noctis' face under the faint city lights peaking through the curtains. The breaths spilling tightly out of him grow louder, hoarser, unhinged. There is a light sheen of saliva across Noctis' lips from where he'd licked them that he won't - _can't_ \- look away from as his hand squeezes gently around him, _moving_ , never stilling from its soft strokes. 

He can feel Noctis gradually hardening more beneath his fingertips, the throbbing veins stretched across firming skin, pressing into him as the prince becomes more animated with each clench of his palm. The only sound filtering through the air are Noctis' ragged exhalations, tearing through the room the more palpable his excitement becomes. Ignis can feel his own answering desire in every little full-bodied shiver he wrings out of Noctis, mesmerized by how little effort it takes to fracture the prince's control like this. Inexperience makes Noctis over-sensitive and unable to properly mask his own reactions, letting them spill out in droves from the way his knees draw up, the way his fingers reach out and dig into the pillow under his head, scrabbling for purchase as though he's bracing himself against an overpowering onslaught, and a lesser man would drown in the power-play. But Ignis is the one who's being submerged, falling deeper than he'd intended, struggling to breathe even if he's far better at hiding his reactions than Noctis. 

This isn't about him, he reminds himself, ignoring the vibrant, stream of unrepentant heat rolling down the veins of his own legs and pressing right into the head of his own cock where it lies untouched, _strained_ , neglected. He ignores it still to fixate on the way Noctis' erection thrusts into his hand, the way his hips move off the bed, unrestrained and directionless, sloppily trying to grind himself against _something_ , whatever he can find.

Ignis has to steady his hip with his other hand just so he can more firmly wrap his fingers around his cock, hold him and stroke him with strong, quick motions, squeezing along the way to continue to unravel every layer of Noctis' pleasure that still lies between them. He sees them ripped apart in front of him when the prince pushes his head back into the pillow, bears his clenched teeth like a wolf, and grabs onto his bicep like it's the only thing that's keeping him from floating away. Sharp fingers dig into his own muscle, pressing dents into the surface, and Noctis's thighs quiver on either side of the hand quickly pumping his cock, letting him know he's dangerously close.

That's when he hears his name, sounded out around the gentle curve of Noctis' tongue, delivered wrapped in a prayer and breathed out loud to break through the stillness of the room. Ignis is so legitimately stupefied by the sound of it that he doesn't register it's Noctis' way of trying to warn him, only realizes that when his come dribbles out against his fingers, sprayed thickly between them, and Noctis' whole body is a tight wire stretched beyond capacity before he's bent and broken by the awkward way his spine curves as his lips hang open.

It's an image Ignis imprints straight into his mind, pressing the brush to ink fast before it dries and this whole memory fades away. He wants it to fuel him later, he wants to cradle it tightly to himself, claim it and cling to it and indulge if just for a second, but the moment slips away too fast like the way sand slides through one's fingers.

Noctis' head is already lolling to the side tiredly, and he watches the way his heaving rib cage gradually calms until he's falling under sleep's spell. If it had been that easy for him, perhaps Ignis shouldn't have waited so long to address the matter, but he's relieved to not talk at the moment. It gives him room to work -to clean his hand thoroughly, to wipe Noctis down, to snap his underwear and pants back in place, to cover him up with his blanket as he snores lightly. 

Perhaps, in the morning, Noctis will convince himself it was just a dream and this silent, awkward dance will continue between the two of them. But for all the time Noctis has spent wading in and out of his dreams, he doesn't think that prince is that easily fooled. Eventually, they'll have to discuss this matter again, but for now, Ignis is comfortable with leaving things as is. Letting the moment simmer in their heads. 

He aches the whole way back home, still straining and untouched, the pressure unbearable between his legs as he shifts in the car and tries to pretend that he doesn't want to touch himself with the same hand that he'd touched Noctis earlier. It's a dangerous path, and the street lights are blinding and accusing, shining reality into the lens of his glasses. He doesn't want this evening to disturb his natural order, but he's already welcomed this chaos into his life long ago. He can't easily claim that his attraction doesn't exist when it rubs insistently against his underwear, distending the fabric uncomfortably. 

 

**003.**

 

It becomes a routine like any other to spend most of his evenings in Noctis' bedroom, palm pressed into the front of his pants, watching the prince's eyes grow darker under the faint lighting as he massages him through the fabric. They don't exchange much words after Noctis' quiet and clumsy invitations, and it's a marvel that he can even pick up on the subtle way the prince still circumvents actually asking him, always throwing out a half-question or just abandoning speech altogether and grabbing him by the wrist to lead him towards the bedroom.

There's always a refusal lingering at the tip of his tongue that he swallows down with his saliva when Noctis reaches his bed, because the sight of him on the mattress wears at his own self-control. It's a constant reminder of his own weakness, acknowledging the strict barriers that he should erect in place between himself and Noctis -the role of royal adviser and prince- and watching them as they all precariously crumble around him while feeling unable to do a thing to stop it. It's not helplessness but desperation, perhaps, because he hadn't been given many opportunities to explore this side of himself growing up. To fall for someone, to know intimacy, to know touch, warmth, and desire. 

Just as much as he's an outlet for Noctis, Noctis is the same to him. 

Even so, he still tries to distance himself from the act by only taking care of Noctis' needs because he's still using the feeble justification that this is another service he's performing towards him. This is for his good. _Everything for the future king._

If he doesn't fit himself into the equation, he can pull out before he sinks into deeply, divorce himself from this union before he becomes complacent. Eventually, Noctis will have to marry and produce heirs, wield his way through politics and fatherhood, and all the while, his own place is at his side but not any closer. He's never been disillusioned about that fact. 

This routine is only temporary, but he hasn't given a finite date for it to end, doesn't know when Noctis will no longer require his 'service.' He doesn't willingly pursue the company of others and seems uninterested in either sex. If he hadn't walked on him that day, he'd have gone on thinking Noctis simply had no interest in sexual relations at all, but his body indicates otherwise, spelling it out in his soundless cries, the rough indents painted on Ignis' own shoulders, and the bruises on his forearm.

He hadn't even noticed the scratch marks until Gladio had teased him about them while training in the palace together. Three thin swipes at the neck had become six then nine, diagonal and etched into the skin around his shoulders and between the scapula where Noctis had become a little more reactive than usual, a testament to his own rapidly increasing efficiency with his fingers. 

Tank tops were no longer optimal for training after that day, though Gladio remains convinced that he's keeping someone secret on the side. He didn't necessarily correct the assumption, only had told him to focus on their match. 

Would he admit to it if asked? It had been troubling enough keeping a neutral expression around the king who constantly inquires about his son, tells him to stay by his side, to look after him, to be his companion in the absence of any other. Some days, he thinks he wears his guilt too nakedly on his face, the words written in marker across his forehead for all to gape, but then convinces himself that he'd easily be relieved of his duties if King Regis really did know anything. 

He'd deserve it completely, and he'd accept it unquestionably. There's no excuse for this, but acknowledging the risk doesn't seem to quell the desire to fall face-first into the deep-end and sink. It's a peculiar sort of trance, casting him as a man who willingly dances on top of hot coals and gets swallowed up by the embers. He's definitely bound to burn at some point, but he'll endure it just to hear Noctis' lips wrapped around his name at the end of every night.

In between his daily tasks and meetings, his eyes skim over books, anatomy books mostly. He sharpens his skills, prepares himself, absorbs it all with unwavering interest. When the night comes, he applies everything he's read, moving his fingers between Noctis' legs and reaching further back to massage beneath the soft sac at the base of his cock where his fingers push in between, applying pressure, watching the prince crumble once more. Noctis' breaths scatter into helpless echoes off the wall, growing lurid and loud when Ignis slides his fingers further back still, gliding feather-light over his perineum until Noctis' spine hinges uncomfortably just so that his hips can jerk off the bed, wordlessly letting him continue. His fingers only stop as they trace away between rounded gluteal muscles, moving in between them to tease along his entrance, curiously wandering over it, and it's territory so uncharted that Noctis' body scrambles away only after just a few seconds, his eyes open and wild.

Anatomically speaking, Ignis knows it's possible to induce orgasm by having the prostate massaged, and it's an idea he's toyed around with in his mind out of curiosity, having weighed the benefits for a while now. He's never administered one, and the idea of hurting Noctis, the risk of it, doesn't sit well with him. He also doesn't want to splinter the trust they'd been building by doing something he'd despise. Were he to succeed, however, Noctis would experience an out-pouring of pleasure at a level he probably hadn't considered before. 

Torn between curiosity and uncertainty, his fingers once again experimentally move across his skin, lightly stroking across the puckered opening until Noctis sits up fully and pushes him away with clear, unmistakable agitation. His eyes are still large and searing as he stares at him, willing Ignis to be the first one to speak.

"Would you allow me to try something new tonight?" 

The alarm is painted so clearly in Noctis expression, lips pushed together so tight they start to turn pale as his cheeks quiver with the desire to say something. The fact that he hasn't refused outright makes Ignis think he's just as intrigued but also inundated by fear. Thus far, Ignis has only pleasured him by using his hand around his cock with safe and measured strokes, the seconds ticking in his head while he'd learned to time the exact moment Noctis would let go and give up on trying to hold back. It had become easier and easier to pick up on all his non-verbal queues in bed, but he desires to push him further still, the urge stronger than any other, nibbling at the forefront of his mind. 

"I will stop completely if it hurts you," he continues to reassure him, making his voice sound gentler than usual.

Noctis' gaze continues to looks unfocused, doubt and fear spread across both irises while he presumably thinks it over. When he finally does reply, the sound of his voice is barely above a murmur. 

"…do whatever you want." 

Ignis assumes he's trying to over-compensate for his nervousness by sounding as casual and 'adult' about it as possible, but those are not the words he should be saying carelessly. Doing what he wants would mean far more than what he knows Noctis is ready for -what even he himself is ready for.

Instead, he stands up from the bed, leaving a questioning Noctis in his wake as he removes the small tube of lubricant from his bag. He had the foresight to purchase it not too long ago refusing to call it wishful thinking at all. It's simply his duty to be prepared, and he's grateful to have it on-hand as he carefully applies the liquid across his fingers to test the viscosity of it.

"Did you actually plan this?" 

There's amusement and disbelief in Noctis' voice contrary to the tension overriding his body, and Ignis tries to rapidly defuse the situation by sliding his slick fingers along the under-side of Noctis' cock, moving them smoothly across his skin and growing moderately alarmed when Noctis jolts away and pushes his hand back quickly instead of enjoying the touch.

" _It's cold_ ," he hisses, and Ignis makes a quick mental note not to apply it directly to him again.

Instead, he blows on the surface of his fingers, warming the lubricant with his breath before pushing them against Noctis' cock once more, drawing his touch beneath his skin, painting abstract patterns to coerce Noctis into lifting his hips up for him. His body moves more fluidly this time, expecting Ignis' finger with nervous anticipation, but there is trust there as Noctis keeps his thighs apart even if his eyes won't meet his at all. As usual, his gaze remains pasted to the ceiling, always looking as though he's trying to separate himself from the situation instead of full-heartedly immersing himself in it, and it would bother Ignis more if he wasn't entirely certain that Noctis wants to receive this kind of pleasure as badly as he himself wants to give it.  He doesn't need Noctis' eyes to tell him that when his body speaks so loudly, cock strained between his legs, bobbing heavily with each rock of his hips where he wordlessly asks to be touched. 

Lube-slicked fingers keep trailing down along his perineum once more, dancing over the smoothness of it with light circles then pressing inwards just to watch the prince suck in his breath, stomach muscles clenching almost hypnotically. There's no sane way he can justify tearing his gaze from him, and Ignis feels his own body clench alongside him like a giant pulse, craving relief where his pleasure aches and screams unacknowledged from inside.

But his focus now is on pushing the prince passed his limits, seeing how far he could remove all semblance of control from him and how deeply inside his body he can feel gratification. It's just as much new territory for him as it is Noctis, his nerves thrumming with excitement as he experimentally caresses around his entrance once more, still trying to coerce Noctis to open himself up to him entirely when his whole body wants to shut him out instead. 

All of Noctis' limbs lock up right away, pale fingers grabbing the sheets with a white-knuckled grip as Noctis' teeth push into his lower lip. His eyes are vivid-wide, pressing down on Ignis with a stare that says that he trusts him still, but that trust doesn't eliminate his fear. 

"Please relax," he murmurs, using his other hand to brush beneath Noctis' erection, elongating his fingers to cup the length of it and squeeze. It's enough to distract Noctis, to ring out a soft gasp from him as hips unconsciously push down towards his finger, and Ignis slips the entire length in, edging the single digit inside to feel the tight, hot ring of muscle close all around him.

It doesn't feel like it's enough to do just this much, a primitive remnant of survival instinct wanting to push more of himself inside, to feel the heated squeeze of muscles around his entire body. To be swallowed up, buried deep inside, and it's such a sudden rush of an urge that Ignis is the one who careens forward without any thought for what he's looking for while Noctis automatically grabs him, claw-like fingers suddenly dragging into his hair to pull him down.

When he flexes his index finger inside of him, that's when Noctis' lips touch his clumsily in the dark, a broken gasp pushed through the kiss where their mouths barely meet one another. He thinks it'll be fleeting because Noctis has never kissed him once before, but the fingers only wrap more sharply around his hair to drag him closer still so Noctis can kiss him without any tenderness at all. It's bruising force, teeth drilling into his dry lips, biting enough to make his lips part completely in return. Noctis' tongue pushes in right away, messy and unceremonious where it curls against his, licking him without any semblance of how the very act of kissing works, yet that raw, unhinged manner of his is endearing, drawing him close as he strokes his tongue in return with his own. It's bad to encourage this, walking blindly into more uncharted territory where he risks falling too deeply and unsteadily in lust with him when he's supposed to be the one setting boundaries.

Those lines between them were smudged long ago, he realizes, when Noctis hands move down his neck and pull open the top buttons of his shirt to expose him. The air around them is heavy and hot, oppressive where Noctis fingers flex and grope as clumsy as his kiss yet just as desperate. So desperate. 

Ignis wants to tell him to stop, but his voice is lodged tight in his throat, and his finger plunges forward, sliding deeper into Noctis so he can massage over the muscles, absently mesmerized by the texture of him, softer than the rest of his body and unbearably feverish. He only adds another finger when he's sure Noctis is distracted enough not to notice the way his skin is being stretched and plundered, and every thrust of them is a reminder that he may very well be the only person in his life who would be allowed to go this far with him, who'd reach inside of him and make his body curl and shudder violently like this as Noctis groans loudly into the kiss and scratches with his fingers in between his shoulders. 

" _Ignis_ ," he breathes out against his mouth, a welcomed sound, one that threatens to unravel his control, but he knows that Noctis only says it when he's at his limit.

The temptation is there to pull away and let this moment last a little longer, but it's not his place, he reminds himself. He's only doing this for Noctis' sake ( _then why is he so hard, his mind questions_ ). There's no answer he feels comfortable giving himself, so he focuses back on Noctis instead, making sure his fingers push up against the gland hidden beneath walls of muscle tissue, applying mind-numbing pressure to it just as his other hand tightens around the head of his cock, feeling it twitch irreverently in his touch, and the seconds scatter away before he grasps onto this moment and infuses it into his memory. 

Young at heart, mind, and body, Noctis never lasts as long as he wants him to, but his release is always an explosive myriad of reactions from the sound of his choked gasp, the way his limbs contort brokenly, the sharp curve of his back when he twists to one side. His muscles all clench around his fingers like a vice, the pressure unbearably tight before they relax enough to let him pull out, and there's hardly any residue left from the lubricant. 

His own pulse drums on chaotically when he moves away, beelining to the bathroom to grab a towel but not without clicking the door shut with his hip first, hearing it close and create a flimsy barrier between his world and Noctis'. It doesn't take long to wrestle with his own belt, pants and fabric pushed aside hastily, shoved down to his mid-thighs as he grabs himself.

 _It's inappropriate_ \- his mind whispers like a broken litany, but he ignores it because he can't bear to hold back any more.

With the sight of Noctis' expression tangled in bliss still fresh in his mind, he rubs along his own cock without the same delicate mercy he'd given the prince earlier. It's almost brutal the way he plucks at his own strings, tugging and pulling across his skin, making it ache as he roughly palms himself. He doesn't think of anything at all except the frozen scenario where he traps the prince between his body and the mattress, feels his entire warmth melt right into him while he rocks inside, pushes in between his legs and hears him come apart with a dying breath.

It's the sweetest release he can offer himself, eyes screwing shut tightly with the echo of Noctis' release still running along his veins until he falls apart, too. His own come slides out onto the towel he's prepared for himself, catching it neatly because there are only so many indiscretions he can allow himself in one night. He doesn't need to cross every line at once, and he cleans himself with almost robotic movements, letting his body do all the work while his mind twists and reels, wrestling with the knowledge that he won't always be able to keep his own feelings out of this. 

The excuse that it's all for Noctis' sake is wearing thin fast.

His clothes are fixed and arranged in record time, glasses adjusted, hair smoothed. He grabs extra towels to help Noctis, already expecting him to be asleep when he steps out, yet the prince is wide awake and sitting up, staring at him sharply. There's a hint of annoyance there, not fully realized enough to be anger, but it's bubbling beneath the surface. 

For a moment, he thinks that Noctis didn't enjoy it as much as he thought, but he knows in his gut that's not the case.

"Why didn't you let me help you?" 

His voice is a razor's edge pushing into his skin. He doesn't know if he could have taken Noctis' hand moving against him in return, cradling him, clenching around him in his disarrayed fashion. He'd never be able to recover his sanity, a fear that drives straight into his bones when he thinks that it's easy to get carried away by Noctis' wants. 

"There was no need." 

His finger distractedly inches his glasses up his nose, and he moves towards Noctis, though the prince doesn't let him get that much closer, ripping the towel loose from his grip so he can clean himself up. Is he really that bothered that he didn't let him return the gesture? 

"But it's fine for you to touch me. What kind of logic is that?" 

"You're the-"

"I know what I am!" Noctis cuts him off, and the spark becomes a full-fledged flame lit before him, threatening to engulf him.

Noctis body grows rigid before he moves off the bed, waistband snapped in place. He stalks forward more predatory than he'd ever seen him, reminding him that the power of Lucian kings runs beneath his veins in spite of everything else wrong with him. He can't go on thinking of him as anyone else but that. 

"That was our arrangement," Ignis calmly reminds him, trying to quickly placate him and put the situation to rest. 

It shouldn't be up for argument, but Noctis has the grace and head of a bull sometimes. He doesn't back away, shoulders pushed back straighter than he's seen them in a while. 

"I didn't agree to it." 

Not in words perhaps, but it was an unspoken clause. Perhaps, Ignis should have made things clearer, but he hadn't thought it out as carefully as he should have before. Now, he's buried half-way in this growing mess, losing sight of why he even started to begin with.

_To build trust._

He doesn't trust himself at all around Noctis and is beginning to wonder how much Noctis even trusts him at this point.

The thoughts come to a grinding halt when Noctis' fingers push into his cheeks, and he only realizes why when Noctis' mouth presses tight against his own. It's always off-centered like the rest of him, impulsive to a fault, pushing in at the wrong angle where they threaten to slide off and away from one another, but Noctis clings to him tightly. And it's sweet, the way he moves his lips, the gentle tickle of them when he tries to kiss him with the delicacy of a man whose never tasted true intimacy in his life.

That rawness in his touch is something that Ignis could easily addict himself to, and he allows himself, for just a moment, to return the kiss, cradling the soft texture of Noctis' hair as he tilts his head enough to fix the angle of their mouths. His tongue pries apart his lips with more subterfuge than Noctis had shown earlier, worming its way inside to draw the two of them together, let them dance, touch, _stroke_ until Noctis' anger starts to melt away.

When his body starts to relax against him, he feels it's safe to pull back, licking the remnants of the taste of Noctis' mouth from his lips before lightly stroking the hair at the nape of his neck. 

"Let me do it next time," Noctis tells him, the words so sharp they almost sound like an order. 

_The blood of Lucian kings runs through him._

Ignis desperately wants to tell him not to, that it's not his responsibility, that he shouldn't concern himself with his desires, but there's no way the refusal can come out at this point. He's just as human as the young man before him, an undeniable fact when Noctis' words alone make his thoughts race and his heart pound. 

"Very well," he agrees, casting his fate in stone. 

He can't help feel like a sentenced man the entire ride home, and his skin grows fevered hot in bed, twisting against the blankets beneath him, pasting them to himself with more sweat as he spirals into the very idea of Noctis until he's the one who can't sleep. 

 

 **004.**

 

His eyes follow King Regis' back as he moves through the halls of the citadel, short words passed between them, always about his son, how he's doing, what he's eating, if his grades are improving. Not once does he ask him about whether or not Noctis is making friends, is dating anyone, has anyone he spends his time with, though Ignis is only aware of Prompto. If he associates with anyone else, they're not important enough to bear mention, but Ignis does wonder if the king does worry about his son's isolation at all. 

He supposes there are bigger concerns to discuss, trade agreements, military budgets, and border patrols. The meetings pass by, one after the other, his fingers moving easily over the pages, scribbling notes. He'll type them up later more neatly for Noctis to read, but it doesn't stop him from trying to be as precise and thorough as possible, wanting to keep the young prince abreast of their current political state even though the terms fly over Noctis' head easily.

In between math exams and the normal social pressures of being a teenager, it's unsurprising that Noctis feels overwhelmed, but he doesn't always know how to lighten the burden for him. A better friend like Prompto could distract him easily, pull him out of the responsibilities and fears bearing down on him and simply make him forget for a few hours. Treat him normally. Smile, make him laugh, take him by the hand and indulge in freedom together. 

But Ignis doesn't have that luxury. Where Prompto is Noctis' gate to freedom, he's Noctis' constant reminder of his responsibility to Lucis, to his people, to his role. He's an unwilling shackle, dragging him back into the world that he'd been born into without choice, and he doesn't always want to be. It'd be easier if the two of them could have been friends and if they could date normally, tease each other, laugh together, go out and spend the night in the arcade, challenging one another. 

Though Ignis is also aware that had they not been born into their respective positions, they would have never met let alone become friends. There would have been no reason to. Aside from being two years apart, they have absolutely nothing in common.

It's why he envies Prompto in many ways who would have still easily been by Noctis' side had their fates changed over night. When he watches them together, it's as though the entire backdrop of war, the barrier, of the Niflheim embargoes don't exist. They're simply two boys exchanging quips, and Noctis laughs around him without self-consciousness, the sound always unrestrained.

He can hear it clearly from where he stands out of sight in the afternoon, eying his watch when the bells overhead toll. The king had sent him to fetch Noctis on his own birthday with the special request to join him for dinner, but Noctis leaves him waiting, instead hanging out next to the vending machines, splitting a soda with Prompto while they discuss some school-related manner.

He notes the way Noctis' posture deflates, the ease with which his expressions move and transform across his face. He's more alive in front of him, carefree, relaxed, _breath-taking_. They don't share the same tension that he and Noctis share, the tension that makes being around him frustrating and complicated, and yes, the envy is still there, sinking heavily into the pit of his stomach. That is a world he'll never cross into, ever on the outside peaking in, but he tells himself he accepted this role long ago. He feels pride in it even if he continues to compromise it by acting recklessly from time to time. It's dangerous but not as dangerous as the way electricity crackles along his spine when Noctis finally does glance his way.

Anxiousness stretches instantly across the prince's shoulders, and there's a slight wave and apology towards Prompto before he makes his way to him. Absently, Ignis notes the way Noctis' finger crawls to his tie, tugging it looser until the collar of shirt folds away, and he has to tear his eyes away so he can focus on starting the car. He hears the prince slide into the backseat, watches uncertainty flicker through his eyes more than once through the rear view mirror. Where he'd normally be half-asleep and lounged on the seat, he instead remains sitting up, fidgeting, and looking outside of himself.

It makes Ignis uneasy with the possibilities of what he could be thinking, unsure what his expression reveals when it twists and changes that much. He wishes he could still be laughing as easily around him as he does around Prompto, but perhaps, it's the impending visit with his father that has him on edge. He's never been one to easily express himself, winding those turbulent emotions in his head until they threaten to make him burst at the seams. He must still be more worried about King Regis aging than he wants to express, the nervous energy etched out in his in-drawn eyebrows and set jaw, and Ignis tries to fetch for something comforting to say. He comes up blank. There is no way to edge around the truth that the king's health his failing him, that the barrier is destroying him little by little. To deny it would be a disservice to Noctis who has to be ready.

Time is too quickly slipping out from underneath them, and Noctis can't afford to play around any longer. Even so, he doesn't always want to be the one reminding him of it at every available opportunity. If he could make him forget the world for a few seconds, he would like that even better. 

The car stops in the garage, and he prepares to open the car door, only Noctis halts him in place from behind, gripping his body to keep him from moving.

"Noct-," he starts questioningly then hears the prince shuffle out of the backseat to climb over into the front seat and squeeze himself between his own body and the steering wheel.

It's an impossibly tight fit, and if not for their slender physiques, Ignis would find it difficult to breathe. As it is, his breath is trapped in his throat for other reasons having to do with Noctis' entire weight bearing down on his lap and the heat of his flesh bleeding through so many layers of clothes. It's maddening how the contact alone threatens to undo him, but they have a schedule to keep. King Regis is waiting, he reminds himself, as his fingers plant on Noctis' hips, ready to push him back.

He's not given that opportunity as Noctis catapults into him, gripping his hair, setting his glasses askew when his lips crash into his, and it's hot and twisted the way he invades his mouth, slides his tongue in to lick the roof of it and steal his words right out of his throat. He struggles to remember why he wanted to stop, thoughts shriveled into ash as Noctis moves his hips just enough to make his own stomach clench with the inevitable searing heat crawling down the insides of his thighs and gathering right between as his cock pushes up against the front of his pants. And the effect is so instantaneous that he wonders if it's a sickness how much he's starting to enjoy the prince's rebelliousness at times.

Though, that's what it is, isn't it? A vastly reckless way to stall him from the inevitable while his father waits inside. He knows Noctis simply doesn't want to see him aged more in front of him, weary and standing with one foot in the grave. It's not the man he grew up with, and Noctis is making himself forget when he rocks against him, when he sucks his lower lip between his teeth and releases it with a harsh snap.

There's no time at all to breathe between where Noctis' fingers move down his neck, into his shoulders, scratching over his biceps, and where his teeth still push into him, testing his limits when they stab into his jaw then sink into his neck. The first button of his shirt pops off in the aggressive pull, clattering noisily into the cup holder while the second button is treated with more care under the prince's clumsy fingers until his shirt is open enough for Noctis' teeth to plunge in.

It's almost too painful, the sensation sparking along under the surface of his skin, unbearable yet mind-numbing, and Ignis tries to gather his wits enough to finally push him back, forcing Noctis apart and up against the steering wheel. Noctis' eyes look enraged in that instant, ready to fight and unwilling to take no for an answer, which is exactly why he needs to hear that refusal.

"Your father is-" 

"He can wait," Noctis cuts him off, and he wrestles with him and bucks his hips forward, accidentally activating the horn with his back when he does so.

The sound of it jars the two of them, makes them both jump in alarm, gazes whipping around to make sure they're still alone in the parking garage. When they're certain they're are, Noctis' hand suddenly reaches down beneath the seat to pull the lever and arch away more carefully from the steering wheel as he pushes the driver's seat further away from it to give them more room.

If he lets it go any further, there won't be a place to wash up except in the palace and there won't be any spare clothes for himself. The logistics sober him fast, and he catches Noctis by the wrist then turns his head away sharply when the prince tries to kiss him again.

"Stop. You're not a child. You need to face him," he tells him with the firmest voice he can muster, his expression leaving no room for argument.

For a moment, he teeters on the edge of uncertainty, unsure if Noctis will snap or stubbornly keep going, but he ends up moving away. There's anger and frustration laced into his expression as he shifts right off of him and opens the car door so he can climb out. The door is then slammed shut hard before Ignis can move, the sound echoing in the large parking garage, but Noctis doesn't bother to look back at him at all. Every line in his back is taut as he stalks away, and he can tell that he won't forgive him so easily for this even if he knows he did the right thing. There's only so many flaming hoops he'd jump through for him before he burns himself, and he's not about to put everything at risk like that. 

He waits a few beats in the car, letting his body calm down from where it had been ignited a few seconds ago. His arousal is easily placated by the thought of King Regis' disappointment, knowing how much he'd been entrusted with yet eagerly laying it to waste just to indulge his son. To indulge himself in his son. It's a terrible, winding realization cork-screwed into the back of his mind, painful and unyielding. He wants to despise himself for it, but if it's not him, he knows it'd be someone else sharing Noctis' personal space with him. 

At least, he can keep his secret safe. At least, he would never do anything to hurt him. 

With that thought hovering in his mind, he moves out at last, follows the same path as Noctis did. He doesn't join the two of them for dinner, letting them speak privately while he uses his emergency sewing kit to repair his shirt in the training room instead. Gladio joins him, a warm, solid presence though he can feel him eying him with questions he doesn't ask. There are marks on his neck from earlier. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what he's studying so intently. 

"He really did a number on you," he remarks with a quiet snort. 

Had he failed that much in being discreet? Then again, the only person who knows Noctis as well as himself is sitting next to him. No, he's sure Gladio knows and understands Noctis even better than he can because he seems to be able to predict and read the prince with an ease that he himself struggles with all the time. He's envious of Gladio, too, for being all the more emphatic towards him than he can ever be. 

"Why do you indulge him that much?" he finally asks, and there is so much meaning in those words, the implications making his stomach flop about like a fish on the verge of dying on dry land. 

"I do not," he instantly replies, though it's a complete lie. They both know that.

Gladio makes another amused sound through his nose as he shifts forward so he can rest his elbows on his own knees. Whatever else he wants to say about the matter never reaches his lips because he veers into safer territory, probably to avoid the messy details of the situation, but Ignis isn't particularly worried about him knowing about them, trusting Gladio to keep it to himself. 

Instead, Gladio tells him that Noctis is getting better at handling larger weapons, is improving his upper body strength. Ignis' mind unconsciously drifts back to the sight of Noctis forearms when he'd reached down earlier to ease the driver's seat back, the confident way he yanked the lever and shifted his momentum. He's definitely becoming more terrifying by the second, but at least, it's mitigated by his charmless and rough personality. If he ever refined himself, he'd be unquestionably dangerous to his enemies. And to himself. Does he want to push him that far? They don't have a lot of time left to prepare him to face the world head-on.

The needle pushes through the button, securing the last thread in place before he ties it off and uses the miniature scissors to sever it completely as he mulls it over. How much longer will he indulge him, indeed? Noctis is already pushing past his teenage years at light speed and will be a man soon, will have to run a kingdom. The burden on him is unmistakable, and he should be helping him with it instead of adding to it like he is. 

He and Gladio exchange a few more uncomplicated words after, their voices low, calm. For a moment, it feels like the past when the two of them looked after a Noctis could barely hold a real sword in his hands much less swing it. Everything had looked too heavy and out of place in his tiny palms, and now, he's growing out of his clothes, his features sharpening into deadly knives all over that Ignis would willingly prick himself on if he allowed himself. It's far easier to imagine him as a boy, scribbling on the walls in the palace. 

The ride back to Noctis' apartment in the evening is met with silence that thickens by the second, making the car feel smaller, more oppressive. The doors close in, shadows stretched until he sees the city lights blur past him in the corner of his eyes. He's curious as to what Noctis and his father had talked about, if it mollified him at all or robbed the air out of him. Noctis hadn't even greeted him after, which makes him think it might not have been all good. At best, they might have just spoken about Noctis' schoolwork. 

His fingers tap lightly on the steering wheel when he reaches the traffic light, and he hears Noctis shift in the backseat, fears for a moment that he might come in too close again, but instead, he curls up on the backseat like a cat, tugging his legs in. Every glance in the rear view mirror shows him progressing through his dreams, rapid eye movement sleep reflected in the twitching of his eyelids. It's almost a crime to wake him when he does pull up to Noctis' apartment, but he'll be all cramped up in the morning if he stays here. 

When he wakes him, it's with his knuckles whispering across his cheek, lightly tapping until Noctis' eyelids pull back like curtains. His pupils are pin pricks underneath even though it's dark all around them, an eerie and unscientific fact in itself, but he makes no comment, only offers a hand for Noctis to grab onto as he pulls him unsteadily to himself. 

They trudge up the elevator together, still in silence, but Noctis' breaths sound like loud shrieks next to his ears, making him feel hyper-aware of his presence, his body heat. Ignis wonders if he'll ask him to stay at all, but there is weariness in Noctis' expression. He looks older for once, so he doesn't press him at all, just helps inside, helps him undress, pushes him down to rest as his fingers trace over his hair, lingering to swipe across the strands that smell like vanilla-scented shampoo, the kind he always buys for him even though Noctis complains the smell makes him hungry. 

With one last look, he indulges himself, watches the prince curled up in a tight ball, trapped between childhood and adulthood, yanked at both ends where he can't decide what he himself wants. He wishes he had the answer for him, could assuage him that it'll be all right, but Ignis isn't confident enough to say as much. He really doesn't know what will happen to him in the near future. 

 

**005.**

 

Gladio's right. He does indulge Noctis too much, and it's a terrible realization that dawns on him when he finds himself standing face to face with one of the arcade machines, trying to make sense of all the numbers, flashing lights and colors visually assaulting him. It's a Saturday so there are many kids and teenagers around, though Noctis has a beanie on his head pulled down low, his face mostly hidden in the sweaty, matted mess of his fringe, and he watches the way the young prince's fingers glide over the buttons on the machine then wonders why he can't display this much dexterity when fighting but that's a complaint for another time.

His own character is brutalized in moments, destroyed by a few flicks of Noctis' wrists until the pixelated spine is precariously ripped out, flung away like a piece of tinsel. It's grotesque, but Noctis doesn't even flinch at the animated blood spots on the screen, his eyes only ever moving just to blink reflexively. 

There's a half eaten popsicle hovering from between his lips, staining them blue, the shade he pretends not to notice even as Noctis drops drool onto the joystick and his hand, the sticky clumps clinging to his slim fingers. It's just as unpleasant to watch as his brutal victories, and Ignis has to pause to grab a napkin and clean him up before he damages more property. 

The look Noctis gives him from being wiped down like a child is full of belligerent irritation, and the prince pulls back from him right away then plucks the popsicle right out to swipe his tongue over his own palm to greedily catch all the errant drops that he hasn't cleaned off yet. Ignis is reminded more of a stray dog than anything else at that moment as he eyes Noctis' behavior with unfiltered curiosity. He idly wonders if Noctis is doing it to annoy him at this point or if he feels no legitimate disgust over his own poor grooming habits. 

"I don't see why you didn't drag Prompto here like you usually do." 

Noctis' response is a subtle shrug, lost under the weight of his hooded jacket. 

"He had plans."

"This isn't what I thought you had in mind when you asked me over." 

Not that Noctis had sounded urgent over text -it's impossible to glean any kind of meaning from of a typed-out 'Can you come over?', but he definitely hadn't expected to be invited to hang out with him this casually. This openly. If he didn't know any better, he'd almost assume it's a date, but Noctis would never ask him for that. He might just have wanted simple companionship even at the expense of interrupting his busy schedule, but Ignis isn't particularly complaining. 

It's safer if he's by his side while he's out and about, especially with muggers and potential assassins abound. It's the excuse he gives himself for enduring round after round of ceaseless defeats at the hands of Noctis' impenetrable hand-eye coordination. Again, he wonders how someone so invincible on screen could be so graceless in reality, thinking if he applied this much effort into actual combat, he'd become a legend in his own right, standing among the greatest of Lucian warriors.

The errant set of drops from his popsicle beg to differ, smacking onto his hand again until Ignis has to heave out a sigh and clean them with the napkin still caught between his fingers. He doesn't let Noctis finish the rest, plucking out the remains glued to the withered stick and discarding it for him.

"Hey-!" he protests, but Ignis is rushing to ignore the blue stains on his mouth again, the way they blend into the natural pink color, creating false bruises from kisses he hadn't given. 

"You were almost done." 

Those words don't smooth out Noctis' irate expression, but he says no more, moves to another machine instead. A few coins in the slot later, and Ignis is left watching a large reptilian creature terrorize a small city, stomping buildings under-foot as Noctis leans forward in concentration. His gaze runs over the pale flash of skin on the back of his neck, covered in beads of sweat from the hot temperatures both outside and indoors. Noctis is over-dressed but obviously trying to hid in plain sight, disappearing into the crowd seamlessly where kids shuffle around with dead eyes, traveling from game to game. The music is headache-inducing, the floor sticky, the smell of aged popcorn growing ever more stale under his nose. It's nauseating, and he wants to move a little closer to drown out the scent with Noctis' to make it more bearable. 

The reptile crunches more towers mercilessly, the points being racked up indefinitely until the machine spits out tickets. By now, Noctis has a bulging wad of them hanging loosely from his pockets but doesn't bother to count them. He's been keeping them in a shoe box somewhere in his closet for a few years now, letting it constantly overflow and making Ignis wonder what he'll even get with them. There's very little in this kingdom that he can't afford to buy himself. Why does it even matter so much? 

He doesn't dwell on that concern too long, watching the play of light and color on Noctis' hair and skin when he turns to face him fully, grabs his arm and pulls him towards one of the shooting games. To his surprise, Noctis pushes the gun into his hand, slides a few coins in the slot, and looks at him almost expectantly.

"I don't know this one," Ignis tells him, knowing he'll disappoint whatever competitive spirit he has at the moment. 

This is Prompto's territory, his hunting ground. That precedent has already been set for him. He won't be a challenge at all for Noctis. 

Even so, the prince seems unfazed. 

"It's easy. Come on, I'll show you." 

Noctis' fingers move around his, palm bleeding warmth into the back of his hand as he helps to position the gun properly, and he's a second layer of skin against his back when he presses close, telling him in his ear how to aim and pull the trigger. The noise of the arcade is drowned out by the sound of his voice unconsciously deepening with his whisper, the timber of it making the hair on his own body stand in attention as he tries to focus between Noctis, between the smell of his shampoo and the blue stains on his lips, and the screen in front of him. 

He loses because, of course, he loses. It doesn't take long for him to be murdered, blood leaking across the screen, an unending parade of violence in these games, but his stomach clenching madly, sweat beading everywhere under his clothes, tells him he's lost in other ways, too. 

More heat surrounds him as Noctis instructs him to try again, this time closing his finger around his, pulling the trigger with him, and he's sure Noctis doesn't mean to instigate anything when his other hand rests on his hip bone, warm and larger than he remembers it being. The heat of it spreads everywhere across his midsection, down his thighs, further between his legs. He wants to tell him stop but then he'd have to tell him why, that these careless gestures of his are impossibly difficult to ignore or cast off. 

They win this time with Noctis practically shooting for him because Ignis' mind is a mess of uncontrolled ideas fighting for dominance over the reasonable part that reminds them he's in public. There will be no further progression for their current actions. 

The loss is felt deeply when Noctis pulls away, leaving him colder than he's ever been, craving after the heat that doesn't even linger across his skin. He pays the sudden neglect no mind, ignores the vague throbbing in his veins, and watches Noctis replace him to show him how it's done. He's vicious when he takes down monster after monster, eyes narrowed in concentration, lips pulled back around his teeth, still licking the blue off of himself when he thinks no one is looking but Ignis always is. A few victories later is all it takes for him to be subdued, satisfying whatever niggling urge is eating at him, and he adds the tickets to his pocket, uncaring for how they look crammed under his sweater like that. 

When they go home afterwards, Ignis doesn't expect to be pressed back against the door when they walk in, feels the handle of it hit his lower back too hard and the wood almost rattle off its hinges. Noctis' knees touch the ground too fast, and his belt starts clinking unimaginably loud in the otherwise still room, followed by the rush of air flowing unbidden from Noctis' lips as he works nimbly. 

The sound of his zipper being tugged down rips through apartment, yanking him back into reality, and his hands are already moving to cradle Noctis' slim shoulders, pushing him back to look at his face. By then, the traces of blue on his mouth are non-existent, but Noctis still cleans his lips like they're dirty. The sight of it alone does nothing to calm the electricity sparking along the base of his spine, edging slowly around the circumference of his waist to hug the sensitive nerve endings there just before it all cascades between his legs. He's getting aroused against his best wishes. 

"What are you doing?" Ignis asks in the most neutral voice he can muster, surprised when it doesn't waver, splinter, or crack like it wants to.

"Isn't it obvious?" 

Painfully so. Yet the reality of it isn't quite dawning on Ignis, expecting to suddenly be awoken from this bizarre fantasy he's having, expecting to be seated at home with a book face down on his lap and an unfortunate crick on his neck, but the vision before him doesn't fade to black. It's vividly traced over, the bright blue of Noctis' eyes peaking through his bangs, the red staining his cheeks, the dark waterfall of fabric latched to his body. Nothing else matters, greys, whites, faded and easily forgettable, but he will never forget the way that Noctis looks at him from below, the untapped intensity that squeezes the life out of Ignis when he imagines how it'd be if Noctis weren't so shy in his day-to-day endeavors. 

His boldness is often frightening, and faced with it, his knees feel like they will give out before Noctis will manage to get anywhere beneath his clothes. 

"Are you really going to tell me I can't do this either?" 

He tries to, but he knows how well that will go. Noctis will get upset and tell him not to fixate so much on his title. There's a man underneath it and a desperate, hungry child even further beneath. In the end, it won't be an argument that he'll win because Noctis is very much correct. Royal blood doesn't exclude him from baser instincts just like his training doesn't prepare him to be hit with the brute force of Noctis' brashness when it's fixated on him. 

"No," he finally replies, the admission soft and defeated. 

His belt clinks loudly once more where it dangles low around his hips, and Noctis is rough-mannered when he tugs his cock free of his underwear. Ashamedly, he's already turgid in his palm, the skin stretched to its limit around aching blood vessels that scream for more stimulation. It's a risk to show his effect on him, but Noctis might have already known long ago. He's more observant than most give him credit for, though it makes Ignis wonder if he'd ever been in his thoughts before this arrangement started. Perhaps not, and it doesn't disappoint him as much as he thought it would to think that, accepting the truth instead.

For whatever reason, Noctis had started since then to reciprocate everything he's shown him with the same lack of consequence that he approaches in all other matters, that utter disregard for shame and propriety. It's all the more apparent in the way he doesn't even pause to breathe or consider his own actions before he slides his mouth around him, drawing him in deep, licking the underside of his cock with his warm tongue. 

There is nothing tentative or exploratory about that tongue, burying him in broad strokes, making his thighs cinch inwards in response as he claws the door behind. There's no way to cling to his composure after it's cracked this much, severed down the center where Noctis cradles the base of his erection in his palm and clenches his heated touch all around him. His mind whirls with the sensation, breath trapped just beneath his heart, neither moving the way they should when his pulse is this disarrayed. The wood of the door catches under his nails, his teeth pushed tight together, barring any sound from slipping out while Noctis clumsily applies pressure with his lips, sucks too hard and pulls away too fast, drooling saliva down his chin.

His forearm sweeps across his mouth stubbornly, and he looks up towards him, checks his reactions, makes sure he's enjoying it completely. Ignis wants to reassure him, but his mouth is full of cotton balls, dry to the point of uselessness just like the rest of his body. He can only bring himself to move his hands just enough to knock the beanie from Noctis' head so he can bury his fingers straight into his sweat-damp hair. He twines the strands in his grip, pulls lightly to encourage him without hurting him, and Noctis' expression almost looks frustratingly cheeky when he does. 

"Not going to nag me now?" 

Noctis' grin is unfairly inviting, youthful and unrestrained, and Ignis' feels conflicted knowing that he shouldn't encourage him. He'll only want to keep doing it if he knows he won't protest, and royalty shouldn't prostrate themselves like this, fold down before someone of a lower rank, take them into their mouths, suck the life and sanity out of them. It's inherently wrong, but the lecture drifts in his mind, unspoken, lost to the growing heat rolling down his spine like a waterfall as he arches from the door and presses deeper into Noctis' waiting lips. 

He feels Noctis' tongue cradle him like his palm, wrapped along the underside, rubbing against him directionless, impulsive. The urge to thrust in is there, to tighten his grip, to steal away control, ride into the waiting heat of his mouth, but he won't hurt him. He's stubbornly set on being patient, calming the urgency throbbing along his body, the twisting dance of flames rising from the bottom of his stomach that leaves his bones jumping beneath his skin just to escape. He wants more, craves it, _needs_ it, and it's taking all his reserve not to claim him all at once. 

_To push him down, to press over him, to see how deep blue his eyes would turn if he were to move inside him, thrust between his legs, tighten the limbs around his waist until he sinks all the way in without escape. If he lost himself, if they lost themselves, if he heard his own name once more on Noctis' lips-_

The mental image undoes him, unfurls every last bit of control until he's screaming in his mind when his lips won't. His whole body shakes, rattled to the core when he twists fingers around Noctis' hair, holds him still so he can cover his tongue with his release, and he's barely even aware of it, drowned in the white hot mess in his mind until Noctis withdraws, coughing and red-faced.

That sound drags him back to the present, makes him instantly forget his own orgasm just so he can assure himself that he didn't just choke the future king. The panic does leave him scrabbling a bit more than usual, pants still half drawn around his thighs while he crouches down and rubs Noctis' back, but the prince is already waving him off, telling him he's all right between coughs. 

There's giddy mirth in his eyes even where tears dangle at the edges, never falling in spite of his red face and his sobering coughs. Ignis still watches him with concern before moving his thumb to the corner of his lip, sweeping the last remains of himself clean from the prince's face.

"My apologies, Noct. I should have warned you." 

There's another wave of Noctis' hand before he shakes his head.

"It's fine. Didn't think you'd finish that fast." 

It's not meant to be an insult at all, but his own pride is rattled nonetheless. Even though he's only two years older than Noctis, there had always been a maturity gap that hadn't narrowed much over time except occasionally he's reminded that he's a teenager as well. That body functions enslave him as much as any other, and for all his mental fortitude, he can't fight the way the world caves in all around him when he's the subject of Noctis' selfishness. He becomes a broken creature under his claws, bleeding outwards to the merciless embrace, and Noctis isn't even aware how much he collars him at times. 

"Kind of glad you did, my jaw was starting to hurt." 

His fingers rub under his chin to illustrate his point, and Ignis wants to tell him that it wouldn't be in so much pain if he had even the slightest hint of patience in his entire body. But words still elude him, running fast and far from his lips as he listens to his own calming breaths, the space between each of them increasing as he returns to normal. Then, his fingers grip his pants and underwear, fixes them in place, smooths out the wrinkles.

Just like that, the moment flees, scatters into nothingness, and it's business as usual because he decides not to dwell or think on it. Noctis' impulses are bound to strike again, and he was caught off-guard this time but he won't be the next. That's a thought he clings to, but it's a lie like any other that's all the more apparent when Noctis rises on unsteady legs then grips him by the front of his shirt to push their lips together, and there's the taste of his own release still on his tongue, a fact that makes his stomach turn with disgust.

He wants to recoil instantly, but he's trapped by Noctis' sheer boldness, the way he pushes his tongue forward, touches it against his, makes it impossible to escape the flavor. He doesn't know if he's doing it to irritate him or if he naively doesn't realize what he tastes like, thinking it's more of the latter. 

When Noctis finally pulls back, there's something expectant in his gaze, like he's searching for a response he's not getting, shuffling through a forest of complications and hoping that Ignis will fill in the gaps for him. Ignis only wishes he knew what the prince wants to hear right now, the childlike expression before him hinting at nothing. Only telling him that he's looking for something more, and Ignis hates sometimes that he can't give him that much fulfillment because it doesn't exist anywhere in his protocol. He was never trained to handle this. 

The seconds slip by, crawling slowly past them until Noctis finally relents with something close to embarrassment when his hopes aren't meant. His fingers leave him completely, a cold feeling drawn into his chest when Noctis adds more distance between them. They may as well be on different continents emotionally, no way to bridge the gap as Noctis hurls himself on the couch, tries to act nonchalant in the face of his own actions. 

His arm swings over his face, buries it under the fabric of his shirt, hiding from him, and Ignis pretends not to notice as he takes care of the essentials -tidies up, leaves a snack out, and closes the curtains for him, only allowing faint lights from the setting sun to peak through and bathe the apartment in deep red and orange. By the time he's done, Noctis is dead asleep on the couch, lifeless and blanketed in orange hues, and if he squints, he can see the way Noctis' fingers clench above his heart. 

"Goodnight, Noct," he whispers before letting himself out, though he still feels incomplete and unfinished somehow, like he should have said something else earlier, but he doesn't know what yet. It nags at him well into the night, keeps him adrift in a restless sleep while he replays the events of the day over and over. 

 

 **006.**

 

The exchanges between Noctis and Prompto always play out so naturally like the calm flow of water across a wide channel, absent of any tension. Ignis feels like the third-wheel in their conversation, contributing very little as Prompto recounts some story involving a bird that flew in through the window during study hall and interrupted the otherwise peaceful high school ecosystem. His hands move animatedly, mimicking its flight patterns complete with daring sound effects that make Noctis chuckle next to him without his usual self-consciousness. The sound is a rich melody next to his ear, making Ignis wonder, not for the first time, if Prompto wouldn't infinitely make a better fitting partner of sorts for him. Objectively, they have a lot in common, seem to easily get along without fighting, can share each other's space without any hindrances at all. Prompto also has no qualms holding out his smoothie, exclaiming it's 'the best thing ever!' and letting Noctis lean in to sip, unaware their lips will touch the same end of the straw, almost like a kiss. 

It's not the first time envy gnaws at him, but he doesn't dwell on it, realizing that fixating on it won't change a thing because knowing that his relationship with Noctis won't ultimately lead anywhere doesn't stop the yearning at all -perhaps even increases it tenfold, well aware this might be the only time they get to do this without much repercussion. Even the king had not so much as forbidden Noctis from dating, instead encouraging him, in his own way, to live youthfully, to soak in the freedom that might cease existing sooner than not. 

A light elbow jars him out of his thoughts, his eyes flicking momentarily towards Noctis who's suddenly scoot unnervingly close next to him. Briefly, Noctis' fingers land over his own, resting on the backs of them before Noctis motions forward with his chin to move, shattering any illusion of affection immediately.

"Need to use the bathroom," he tells him, and Ignis dutifully rises to let him out of the booth before settling back in.

Left alone with just Prompto, it occurs to him that he can only count on one hand the number of times they've actually spent together without Noctis there. It had been too few and for good reason because he can't think of anything to actually talk to him about, though Prompto fidgets, bends his straw, shuffles his bangs around, and struggles to fill the silence. Ignis often wonders about the boy's home-life, where that incessant urge to constantly fill everything with noise and action comes from. The habit must nag at him constantly in his head, an overpowering urgency that might be the result of loneliness. Both he and Noctis have that in common, though Noctis fills his own personal void with cathartic sleep instead of noise. 

His resolve to stay silent himself is quickly brought to an abrupt end when Prompto taps his forearm curiously, leaning too heavily on the table in a way that makes the condiments all rattle. Ignis eyes them to make sure nothing's been knocked down or spilled over before acknowledging Prompto with a simple raised eyebrow.

"Do you know about Noct's mystery girl?"

That... is an unexpected question. A conundrum even. Does he mean Luna? Naturally, Noctis would have said something about her to Prompto in spite of his abject embarrassment in even discussing the written notes between them, some of which he'd unintentionally gleaned over while tidying his apartment for him, though he can't say there's ever been anything particularly of interest written in them due to Noctis' poor writing skills and emotional constipation. A great poet he is not. 

"He blew me off for a movie on Saturday to go meet with someone," Prompto continues, unhindered by the fact that he received no answer from him just now, "Kind of thought he'd have gone on a date, but why wouldn't he tell me about it? Is he holding out on me?" 

"A date?" Ignis repeats, the words sounding foreign in his own mouth, wondering where Prompto might have gotten that impression. 

Last Saturday had been the day the two of them had met at the arcade together, though he recalls Noctis had said Prompto had been busy that day and couldn't come. It's why he'd invited him instead. Could he have been lying about the whole ordeal? Had he himself gravely miscalculated the reason for their engagement? 

"He was with me," he finally clarifies to stamp out the notion of there being any date, and his voice remains neutral in spite of the ricocheting sensation in his mind as his memories collide violently with Prompto's words, sending the two skittering backwards in every direction. His heart starts lurching across his rib cage soon after, something akin to panic swelling inside while he breaks free of Prompto's gaze, doesn't let it settle on him too long for fear of what he might give away.

"...Oh," is all Prompto says in response, and there is so much weight to that one syllable that Ignis doesn't even want to consider what might be running through his head at the moment, thinking it's far better not to ask or discuss it any further.

Fortunately, it's a good time for Noctis to return, the prince still drying his wet hands on his pants as he approaches, but at this point, Ignis is just glad he'd washed his hands at all. His body slides out of the booth once more to let Noctis in, though he's the one that feels trapped when he sits, still feeling Prompto's gaze moving over him without relent. There are cogs turning in his mind, creaking loudly enough for Ignis to hear but not acknowledge. 

Only Noctis deigns to break the silence, oblivious to the fact that he'd been the focus of their conversation earlier.

"Let me have another sip." 

Prompto's smile right then is disarming, the momentary stillness disintegrating fast as he holds out his smoothie towards Noctis. Ignis has never been more grateful to have him there, have him scoop up Noctis' attention so his own can recede for a little while as they finish their meal. By the time they're ready to leave, his pulse has all but died down to a dull but noticeable throb, limbs still feeling unnaturally tired as he carries himself to the car. Noctis' steps follow closely behind, dragging more noisily across the sidewalk with his heavy-handed gait until he pushes himself into the backseat of the car. 

The street lights are already dancing overhead, lighting up the otherwise dark interior as they drive beneath the afternoon sun, though Ignis, still carrying the burden of Prompto's words from before, speaks up.

"Did you really invite me out on a date?" 

The question just falls from his mouth so bluntly that he hardly believes he's said it until the words are out in the open and until Noctis is tensing up in his rear view mirror, his limbs visibly locked into place as he stares at the back of his head in alarm. Ever the caged animal, his first instinct is to escape from any awkwardness, lips pursing together before he combs his fingers through the back of his own hair and tucks his face out of sight. His upper body melts into the dark shadows of the backseat, making it hard to discern whatever expression he's making beneath them. 

"Not really." 

In Noctis-speak, that's a definitive yes no matter what mental gymnastics he must be doing to pretend it wasn't. The lurching feeling in Ignis' chest returns completely as he tries to find the right words to disassemble the situation carefully. A casual, beneficial arrangement is acceptable. It's temporary. That's the unspoken clause, too. They'd be able to cleanly break it off at any time, not invest too much of themselves in a sinking ship already half-way under, but Noctis, he's starting to think, doesn't see it that way at all. Might actually be entertaining the possibility of falling for him because he's never been with anyone else before. 

The potential to destroy their working relationship is there, and the burden to end things is Ignis' alone because Noctis never will. 

"We do not have that kind of relationship." 

It's a knife to the gut, searing across the prince's stomach and making the younger man's face twist beneath the elongated shadows. He catches a hint of Noctis' hand moving over his jaw, brushing the side of it before he looks away, out towards the window, to avoid being present in this moment.

"I know," Noctis answers somewhat soberly, and it's spoken so surprisingly somber and mature, like Ignis doesn't have to spend the next hour or so listing out the reasons why it wouldn't work between them. Why they don't belong together. Why he can only ever be his aide. There's no room for their attraction to grow beyond what it already is, which is an overflowing creature of giant proportions, volatile and difficult to control. "I already said it wasn't a date, and you don't have to do anything for me you don't want to." 

It's not about want. It's never about want. There are a lot of things he _wants_ to do with him, _to him_ , for him, but it's never about want. If he had that choice and luxury, he'd have taken it long ago without a second thought. As it is, duty compels him to pull away when Noctis presses in too close and threatens to overwhelm him completely. If he doesn't, then he'll endanger Noctis' already fragile future. 

His fingertips tap lightly on the steering wheel as he continues to shift his attention from the road to Noctis' hunched form behind him, wondering what his eyes would look to him if they were not glued to the outside window, wondering how deeply the turmoil would make his lips twitch and relax intermittently. It must hurt to feel the rug constantly tugged out from under his feet just as he finds his balance. There's no way Ignis can ever hold him up steady if he's also constantly being tipped upside himself by his own temptations. 

He breathes out after a moment, counts the seconds in his head as he starts to pull in towards the garage of Noctis' building. Only when he's parked completely does he turn around to face Noctis, settling his gaze on his crumpled form now shrouded in even more shadows where the dim garage lights don't reach. He's sinking away fast, but Ignis wants to ground him with his words.

"Do you want to stop what we are doing completely?" 

It's too late to back-track, too late to erase the past few weeks, eliminate the lurid images from his memory bank after they've been burned into it. But the option is there to quit now and pretend it hadn't happened. Ignis is confident he can but knows Noctis never would be able to. 

"Do _you_ want to stop?" Noctis fires back, words leaking out like acid as he picks his body up, scoots closer, and Ignis can see him all too well when he brings his face into the light. 

It's unnerving how eerie he looks with his pupils that small, like an other-worldly creature struggling to understand humanity. 

"That is inconsequential." 

A hand claws at the back of his seat, tight and powerful, fingers pushing into the leather as Noctis's voice cracks from his frustration. 

" _Why?!_ Why is it only about what I want?! Why do you always make it about me?!" 

_Because you're the future king._

The words dangle from the tip of his tongue, well aware that Noctis won't take it well if he says them. There really isn't much he _could_ say that would placate him, but his silence would be even worse, he feels. Noctis deserves some kind of explanation, but he hates the idea of having to flounder around for the correct response. Saying things without some mental preparation, blurting them out without thought, that's Noctis' style. Not his own. He's always been the one who knows exactly what to say for any kind of situation, but this requires a certain diplomacy that is far beyond what royal protocol had prepared for. 

Yet his mind turns up blank when he does try to think beyond just wanting to kiss the anger completely away. So for once, he does just that. Acts instead of thinks. Moves before his mind can catch up. And it feels amazing when he twists his body, cups the back of Noctis' neck gently to touch their lips together, and licks his mouth apart so he can press his tongue deep inside and swallow down the rest of the rage-fueled words bubbling in the prince's throat. 

He can't help but sink into it himself, moving his lips across the soft texture of Noctis' mouth to massage it with his own, tickling beneath his heavy tongue until Noctis deflates and groans in the back of his throat, a sound so quiet and simple that it goes straight to his own groin. The seat belt suddenly becomes an unnecessary obstacle, quickly disengaged so he can twist his body more, swallow every other one of Noctis' sounds into his own throat. Adrenaline is pushing him onward now, head spinning with the scent of vanilla creased between his fingers and Prompto's berry smoothie still pasted to Noctis' tongue. 

Stubbornly, he chases the taste of it, moving with his own usual care and grace to fit himself into the backseat where Noctis drags him down right away and traps him between the tight loop of his legs so he can rock right up against him, and they're both already hard, both already breathless, pushing fingers into each other's jackets, trying to shove fabric aside, _hungry for skin, hungry for kisses_ , hungry for the savage heat rippling where their limbs meet, touch, and grind together. His glasses tumble off when Noctis yanks him closer by the hair, fingers clawing into his scalp, holding him hostage while he pushes his tongue into the roof of his mouth, a needy and invasive thing he willingly chases after. Beads of saliva slip down his own chin, left uncleaned, mingled together in the kiss that sucks him in whole, ignites the space between his legs with a thousand embers that he can't quell even when he pushes down against Noctis' body, and he still desires so primitively to be inside of him, longs for it with every thrust that he aims between his thighs. 

Noctis must want it too because he only encourages it by rutting back against him, constantly pushing into the heat of his body and craning his hips like he wishes all the fabric wasn't in the way, and when Noctis finally stops to breathe, it's with broken, unsteady gasps, stuttered out of his throat as his head falls backwards to try and swallow down air. His hair fans everywhere around his head like a splintered crown, skin stained a faint red where Ignis admires and memorizes the image of him some more, thumb tracing down his cheek to leave the impression deeper in his mind before he kisses him again, thrusting against him desperately and waiting for Noctis' hips to buck up towards him in answer. 

They barely last much longer than a few seconds, driven to the brink of desperation by the sheer ferocity with which they attack one another, with which he himself loses control and with which Noctis never deigns to stop him. He's shaken down the center by it, trembling with the overriding sensation of heat licking down his spine until the noise that erupts between them is his own, buried inside Noctis' mouth when he feels his own cock tighten and strain before release. All his muscles seem to clench inwards at once, a full-body pulsing motion that threatens to ruin him completely as the pleasure bursts forth though like a broken dam, and he bites hard on Noctis' mouth without thinking just to muffle what else wants to come out. 

That seems to set Noctis off next, a curse loosened from the prince's throat as his head snaps back, voice unbearably loud, and his nails push into his shirt, twisting into the fabric while his whole body lifts from the seat underneath him, wrenches upwards and against him. Ignis feels more than sees the way Noctis' body shudders, clinging to him without a second thought, and Noctis's face pushes into his shoulder with the aggressive embrace, making it impossible to escape him at all, not that he would want to.

For once, he's content to not move or rush to clean them off, enjoying holding Noctis so close that he can feel the little after-tremors still racking through him, and he realizes he's never bothered to stay long enough to be held at all like this himself. It feels unnervingly good, easy to get lost in, like he's floating further and further from reality by the second. Yet he also knows if he stays like this, Noctis will likely pass out as is, and he's not about to carry him all the way up to his room. 

His hands carefully work to disentangle Noctis' arms from himself, ignoring the crude mess in front of both their pants as he smooths down Noctis' hair for him, making a vain but futile effort to make him look decent. There's nothing about his expression that doesn't scream post-orgasmic lethargy, but he only has to get him into his room in one piece without attracting all his neighbors' wandering eyes. 

He slips his glasses back on next to truly observe the mess they've made, but he doesn't allow his mind to dwell, instead dragging Noctis off the seat as he opens the car door for them. The prince leans heavily on his side, head touching his shoulder while he hoists him up, and there's a small, discernible smile tugging at his kiss-swollen lips that makes Ignis unable to regret anything at all if only just to grant himself the freedom to watch him like this just a bit longer, to feel the warmth of him melting into his side. 

"Should do it like that more often," Noctis muses out loud, possibly unthinkingly, and Ignis has a hard time pretending he doesn't hear him.

 

**007.**

 

The faint morning light dances painfully across the backs of his eye lids, stinging uncomfortably until Ignis unconsciously rolls over to reach over towards the body that should be next to his, only to find the space empty, bereft of any warmth. That startles him awake, sitting up with the sheets pulled tight around his waist, only a pair of underwear desperately clinging to stay on his hips, making him wonder how worn out he'd been if he hadn't bothered to put on more clothes before passing out entirely. His muscles still protest the simple act of moving and breathing, joints screaming from overuse, and his normally clean and tidy room is buried under strewn about clothes, able to see the faint outlines of them through his blurry vision as his fingers grope blindly for his glasses. However, they're not where he usually keeps them on his night stand.

Again, he draws his hand along the table in futility to double-check while he combs through the memories of last night, of Noctis who'd come to his place for once on the eve of his eighteenth birthday. They'd eaten the pastries he'd baked for him together, the fruit filling ending up smeared over his mouth purposely by sticky fingers so Noctis could lick it off after, and his belt loops had been trapped under the prince's crooked grip, pulled roughly towards the bed where he found himself on his back, the ceiling spinning fast and unsteadily as Noctis sat on top of him -spread his thighs on either side of his hips. 

At some point, Noctis had lifted the glasses right off his face, put them on his own, letting them sit there to leave him disoriented and blind while the prince had wrestled away from him complete control, orchestrating his body to contort up into him, leaving him straining for the blissful contact until Ignis had fallen to pieces right under him. Every sensation had been heightened to the point of madness by the mere fact that he could barely make out the world around him, forcing him to keep his eyes closed the entire time. A clever trick. Too clever. 

A year had changed Noctis plenty -changed the two of them plenty-, had brought them cataclysmically closer like two stars destined to rip each other apart through the sheer force of each other's gravitational pull. It's only a matter of time before they burn right through one another, but he hasn't woken up a single morning without feeling all the more alive because of it. 

This morning is no different even if he has to grope along the edge of the bed to make it to his dresser drawer where his emergency spare glasses are stashed away, all the same color, same style. No one is ever the wiser when he slides a new pair on.

A clattering sound from the kitchen tugs him further into the realm of wakefulness, remembering exactly what had startled him to begin with, why he hadn't bothered to sleep until his alarm clock normally wakes him. Noctis had been mysteriously missing from his side, which in itself is a rarity. The young prince hadn't been up before noon on a non-school day in all the years he'd known him. 

His hand grabs a pair of sweat pants and a sleeved shirt for modesty, pulling them on quickly to cover himself before washing his face and brushing his teeth fervently. He then makes his way to the kitchen where Noctis _un_ modestly rummages through the fridge like a spiky-haired raccoon digging through trash just so he can steal more of the pastries from last night. How he's managed to eat so many in such a small amount of time is beyond him, still trying to work out the physics of where he even stores it all in his body as he eyes the thin shape of his hip bones jutting from the low-cut black boxer-briefs that sit unbearably low on him, most likely a size too small. He'll have to buy him some new ones, well aware he's been outgrowing his body for a few years now and hasn't quite stopped, though at least his height has leveled out. It'd have been strange to find himself one morning as the one who has to look up at Noctis instead of the other way around. 

A small sigh leaves his throat as he arranges the new pair of glasses above his ears, pushes them further back to balance comfortably on his face while he approaches closer.

"You had me worried for a moment. I assumed only an imperial invasion would get you out of bed this early." 

Noctis' response is an unamused snort as he stuffs half a pastry in his mouth before leaning back against the counter to chew. 

"Hungry," he mutters around a full-mouth, a few crumbs spilling out that Ignis will have to clean up later. 

For now, he's content to watch for a little longer, straying his gaze down the length of the prince's lean body and wondering how someone could sit on both ends of the spectrum between repulsive and attractive. If he knew, he probably wouldn't be as tangled up in him as he is. 

"At least, put a napkin below your mouth as you eat." 

He hands him one to make a point, and Noctis actually complies without complaint, most likely because he's nearly finished anyway. His fingers lick up the spare jam filling, sucking quietly on the ends while Ignis holds up yet another napkin at him, giving him a pointed glare. 

Noctis rolls his eyes and takes it to wipe his mouth clean before tugging him down to his own lips, kissing him with an acrid mixture of morning breath and sweet jam on his tongue. Again, repulsive and attractive all at once, but Ignis allows it against his better judgment. It is his birthday, after all. 

When they pull away, it's only so Noctis can retreat back to the bedroom to grab his wrinkled clothes, tugging them on haphazardly, uncaring how they sit on him, ignoring the absolute disarray of them while he searches for his wallet on the ground. He crawls down on all fours like a dog trying to sniff for clues, arms moving wildly beneath the bed before finding various kinds of accoutrements that had fallen out along the way. There is a used condom crumpled up by the nightstand that Ignis tries not to cringe at, knowing he'll have to shampoo the carpets later. And the bed spread. 

Bringing him here was really a mistake, one he keeps embracing because the sight of Noctis on his bed last night, on the sheets he'd lain himself on a thousand times, had undone him in the worst of ways, had ripped apart his sense of control to pieces just as it had Noctis who had been more energized than he'd ever seen him outside of battle, head thrown back like a wild, preying beast while he'd filled the room with his ceaseless panting, and Noctis' hands had combed through his hair when he roughly pulled their bodies together, engulfing him into his heat.

Ignis thinks he might never be able to do anything remotely productive in this room again, so he tugs Noctis out of it before he soils it any further with his presence and prepares a small brown bag of leftover pastries to take home with him, pushing it into his hands when he's done. They hover at the doorway with Noctis looking more relaxed than he's seen him in a long time, the result of perhaps far too much indulgence last night. Far, _far_ too much. 

"You're due for brunch with your father at noon then a haircut after," Ignis rattles off as he absently combs said hair down with his fingers, "I've had your suit pressed for the festivity tonight. There's new cologne in your medicine cabinet and new toothpaste. Make good use of both. And one more thing-" 

His hand catches Noctis before he leaves out the door, fingers lightly gripping his upper arm as he turns the prince to face him then tips his chin up with his other hand. He touches his own lips to Noctis' gently, _briefly_ , letting them linger there and trying not to think about how numb his own had gotten from all the kisses stolen, bitten out, and exchanged last night. 

"-Happy Birthday, Noct," he whispers before releasing him, and Noctis ducks his head, hides his little smile beneath his too-long bangs, and doesn't say a word when he lets himself out, but Ignis doesn't need to hear any.

For once, he doesn't feel as though he's left things unfinished.

\- The End -

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you if you manged to get through all of this! Enjoy your evening!


End file.
